More Than Just A Letter
by Rigel99
Summary: This story evolves based on the 00Q explored in previous instalments of "To Be A Quartermaster." This is Part 5 of the series.
1. Chapter 1

_Despite initial misgivings and the more intense than usual scrutiny of their superiors, the relationship between James Bond and MI6's Quartermaster has blossomed beyond all expectation. The work of a Double-O has usually ensured that retirement packages for the men and women in their line of work were a rarely experienced thing. But now, James Bond has something more in his life. Something real, solid and beautiful to return home to. He occasionally marvelled at the fact it turned out to be a man that grounded him. When it would be the women in his life that pulled the ground from under his feet should come as no surprise._

* * *

 _ **"** I may have a shot. It's not clean. Repeat, I do not have a clean shot,"_ Eve's voice wavered slightly over the comms link.

Q was standing at his post in Division, silent, listening, his hands behind his back.

 _ **"** There's a tunnel ahead. I'm going to lose them."_

M had taken it upon herself to oversee Bond's mission in Istanbul for which Q was partially grateful. The success of the mission was vital to protect SIS's undercover operatives abroad and her experience stood head and shoulders above his own. He was forced to swallow his pride and take it on board as a learning exercise.

 _ **"** Can you get into a better position?"_ M. Urgent but steady.

 _ **"** Negative, there's no time,"_ replied Eve.

Q can hear the scuffles and punches exchanged between Patrice and Bond. He can only imagine the patch up job Medical are going to have to do on him when he gets back.

 _"Take the shot."_

Q can feel Eve's hesitation seep into his brain. M is asking the impossible and much as Q wants to, he can't interfere. He was told in person by M, in no uncertain terms, the repercussions of allowing his emotional relationship with the agent to bleed into the operation.

 _ **"** I said take the shot!"_

As he had been absorbing her words, he wondered if she already knew how much blood there would be.

 _ **"** I can't, I may hit Bond!"_

 _ **"** Take the bloody shot!"_ shouted M, the authority in her voice demanding no argument.

Q felt the shudder ripple through his body as the sound of Eve's weapon cracked hard and deadly in his ear. He closed his eyes. The silence is long, empty for a few heartbeats before Q and those listening at MI6 hear the splash of water as Bond's body impacts the surface of the river.

Solemn and quiet, Eve's voice sounds the regret washing over them all. None more than Q. _ **"** Agent down."_

Q heaves a breath and bows his head. The minions are silent. He had prepared for this. He had known the day would come. Today, more than ever, was a test of his character. He wasn't going to let either his staff or his agent down. He raised his head, straightened his shoulders and turned towards the room.

 _"The job will always come first,"_ bright, blue eyes filled his vision as the words ghosted across his mind.

The minions were standing in silent respect for the loss of an agent. An irreplaceable weapon in the fight against enemies unseen.

"Carry on," said Q, calmly. "We still have a hard drive to find and other operatives equally as important to protect. There will be a time to mourn the loss of 007." He turned back to his station and they resumed their seats. "But it isn't now."

Today was going to be a very long day.


	2. Chapter 2

_"Those sounds you're making could hardly be described as encouragement to stop," mumbled James, voice ragged, deep, dripping with the promise of the things he wanted to do to Arthur, with Arthur, for Arthur._

Fuck.

 _"James please…" Arthur tried to muster the resistance required to belay the attentions of a single-minded Double-O, wrapped presently and rather pleasantly around the Quartermaster, teasing moves and brushes sending jolts of waking pleasure flashing like tiny bolts of electricity across his skin. James Bond was fully charged and ready to wreck havoc on his body, a destructive force that tore them both apart from the inside out, only to carefully reconstruct each other in the aftermath of a reeling, all-consuming passion that Bond had only scratched the surface of with Vesper and now understood completely in its excruciatingly pleasurable whole with Arthur Clifton. Q was a balm for a world-weary soul. Bond couldn't get enough. He wondered if he ever would._

 _On all-bar-one occasion, James had successfully applied his knowledge of Q's malleability to his early morning drives and demands, knowing in those few minutes between sleep and wakefulness, the man was easily swayed to James' train of thought._

 _This morning however, his window of opportunity was rapidly closing and just when James thought his ministrations - intent on the coaxing of Q's arousal to the point of no return - were paying off, he allowed Arthur to roll him onto his back, only to find himself pushed bodily away with a swift motion that took even James by surprise._

 _He grabbed his glasses and trained a severe "Q" look over the rims at the agent. Bond just tilted his head, a pretend bored expression gracing his features. "As you very well know, 007, with Ronson roaming about Istanbul and closing in on that rather sensitive bundle of information we need to secure, your services are required as backup and the Quartermaster, in his capacity, would be remise in his job were he not to ensure his Double-O were not fully kitted out for the mission ahead."_

 _"Ronson can handle himself. Now," he continued, climbing swiftly out the bed after Q, "if you'll just let me handle you…"_

 _Q huffed as he found himself unceremoniously wrestled to the carpet. He ruefully thought, as Bond descended upon him, that he really must do something about his strength and fitness, so at least the token resistance he displayed might have some modicum of a chance at being taken seriously._

* * *

Q was abruptly roused out of his waking memory to find himself staring through his laptop screen, wallowing in past moments shared with the second man he had been lucky enough to love.

Now he was gone. He was vaguely wondering what had knocked him back to reality when he heard his front door buzzer ring. He rose and walked to his intercom. His finger hovered over the two way speaker for a moment before he checked the camera feed.

It was Eve.

Eve Moneypenny. The woman who couldn't shoot straight. Q realised it was unfair to direct his anger at her. It was unreasonable in their line of work to lay blame. They all knew the danger, accepted it as a given of intelligence work. If it hadn't been her, it would have been someone else who would have had to take the shot.

He dropped his hand from the intercom. Still. She was literally the last person he wanted to talk to right now, burying deep the niggling knowledge that they should clear the air. Be professional and all that. Q was feeling far from professional at this moment in time. Less so, ensconced in the safety of his own home.

She was looking directly at the camera. He saw her mouth the words, "I know you're there Q. You can't avoid me forever!"

Maybe not. But he'd give it a damn good shot and was actually doing a pretty good job of it so far. Aside from meetings and Bond's memorial service, he'd managed to avoid her in any capacity other than professional. He would talk to her. Eventually. But not yet. He wasn't actually sure how composed he could remain as he all but wanted to punch her in the face and scream at her for being such a piss-poor shot. Yes. Not exactly behaviour becoming of the Head of Q Division. He needed to get over those feelings first. He watched as she stubbornly sat down on his front step with her arms crossed. She could stay there all night for all he cared. He had things to do. He turned off the camera feed and shuffled back to his sofa and his furry companions.

He opened his laptop and resumed his task undertaking the modifications on the Tel Aviv design. James' last gift. The least he could do was bring that to life. Even if he couldn't bring back the agent…

* * *

It was once jokingly said by those in the US intelligence service that the English accent could coax the Devil into submission and that was their biggest advantage. Since M came along however, the Devil wasn't only submissive, he was practically swallowing the key to his chains so he could stay and be played, a fiddle to her bow.

M. Unbeatable. In so many ways.

She left her office and tossed a cursory nod toward Villiers on her way to the lift. She had one more port of call before home.

She, the reason MI6 was at the peak of its game, didn't bother stalking on a normal basis. But then, the Quartermaster wasn't a normal employee. Even by SIS standards. She'd spent an inordinate amount of time and effort on securing the talents of Arthur Clifton for the benefits of national security and she'd be damned if she was going to be blamed for losing two of her finest during her tenure. One was enough. Maybe she should have stopped their relationship before they both sunk too deep into each other. Or perhaps, as Bond would have said, bollocks to that branch of logic, Ma'am.

She exited the lift and stalked through Q-Division with the unassuming, unbetraying wariness of a mother looking for a stray cub.

Head of MI6 she may be, but she was still a woman and a woman who could apply herself in whatever guise was demanded of her at any point in time.

Bloody love, she rankled irritatingly at herself. Pain in the arse and saviour of humanity.

Yet…

Best bloody thing that had happened to Bond in a long time, she thought to herself, as she strolled towards Q's location. The reason the CIA tapped her organisation on more than a regular basis for the intel it so desperately sought. And all that captured intel was entirely down to Q's ingenuity in that regard. Foreign intelligence was a snake. And when it came to charming it into submission, Arthur Clifton had proved himself the best man for the job. And, as an added bonus, at least as far as M was concerned, the best man to tame the perpetually coiling hurricane that was James Bond.

Until she lost said man. Her best Double-O. All in the name of duty. Yet that did not detract from the truth that his death was by her own hand. She gave the order. Everyone heard it. Eve Moneypenny was nothing more than her own finger on the trigger.

Missing. Presumed dead.

M was not by nature an inherent optimist, but she was wise beyond her run-ragged years and as a bonus, a pragmatist. Yet, she had no idea why Bond, irritatingly, crazy, lucky bastard that he was, made her doubt herself and her own assertions about the world. A woman could be most things with Bond. Assumptive was not one of them.

Without a body, M remained unconvinced he was dead. The arrogant bastard would have made sure his body would have been found. He could never resist a party in life. Why should one where he's the centre of attention even in death be any different?

She found Q.

And he was in the swimming pool.

Interesting.

She met him at the end of the pool before he turned for another length, where before he ducked beneath the surface again, he caught sight of a pair of unmistakably comfortable shoes belonging to a superior on the pool ledge.

"I didn't know you were fond of the water, Quartermaster."

He removed his eye googles. "Therapy, Ma'am."

M was all too aware of what Q had lost, what MI6 had lost with the "demise" of 007. Two people who cared about the fate of the man, for two wholly different reasons.

Q climbed out of the pool to stand before his superior. "It helps me escape my mind and focus on the body. Frustratingly, one is fairly useless without the other."

Or maybe not so different.

"I know you're busy…"

"Aren't we all, Ma'am…"

"Quite. However, I'd like to request a one-to-one meeting to discuss your psych evals. I find them disturbingly reassuring…"


	3. Chapter 3

_**The Day Before M's meeting with Gareth Mallory…**_

"Goodnight, Q."

"See you tomorrow, Jason."

"Any plans for this evening, Sir?" he enquired idly as he pulled his jacket around his shoulders.

"Curry and cats," he replied with a polite smile. "Oh, and a meeting with our illustrious leader before the end of my shift," he replied absently as he removed his headset after signing off with 004.

"A few of us are going round the corner for a drink if you'd care to join us after that?"

"Not tonight, thank you, though I appreciate the offer. I have a feeling my meeting with M might go on longer than I anticipate." That plus I'm still not particularly good company.

"Very well, Q," Jason said, with an understanding nod. "Have a good one."

"Likewise," he said to the man's retreating back.

Q passed the baton to one of the minions. "I don't expect anything out of the ordinary, but you know where to reach me if something unusual crops us."

"Absolutely, Sir," replied his brightest-eyed junior.

He strolled off to his office to grab his bag and his coat and headed for the lift for his ride to the Gods. The door slid open to reveal one Eve Moneypenny.

"Good evening, Q," she said levelly. "I was just coming to see you," she continued, stepping out of the box, not dropping her gaze from his, looking like a cat ready to pounce on a ball determined to escape its claws. Wonderful. Well, as Fate seems determined…

He stepped in as she stepped out. "I have a meeting with M in five minutes, Moneypenny." She was holding the door. Waiting.

"I am, however, free for a few hours tomorrow evening if you'd care to join me for a drink."

She released the door with a nod. "See you then, Q." He rolled his shoulders just as the door drew shut. Fuck tomorrow, he thought to himself as he ascended towards M's domain, I need a bloody drink now.

Fortunately, he was in luck.

"Go right in, Q," said Villiers with a pleasant, attractive smile. Q acknowledged with a nod and a fleeting thought how much simpler life would be if he didn't go around falling for people Death seemed to have a hard on for as well. He was going to kick that bastard's bony arse when he finally got round to Arthur Clifton. He entered her office to see M pouring two tumblers of top shelf Scotch. He paused halfway across the room.

"Join me, Q," she said, extending the glass in his direction.

"Ma'am?" he hesitated. "I was under the impression you wished to discuss my psych evals."

"Oh I do," she said, stepping with purpose towards him and thrusting the glass into his hand. "But I find there's nothing like a little lubrication to get to the truth of the matter, don't you?" The glint in her eye should have made him nervous, but strangely, he found himself relaxing. Nothing more dangerous in this world than a woman who looks like she'd be up for a motherly hug just as she was calculating how to take you down, he thought to himself.

She raised her own glass. "To absent friends and damn fine agents."

It had been three months since the disappearance of Bond. Q knew she hadn't been entirely convinced he was dead. This moment felt like she was toasting closure for both of them.

He clinked her glass.

* * *

James Bond was spectacularly drunk. His head was resting on his forearms, eyes staring with struggling focus on the upturned shot glass that caged the deadly little creature.

"At least I know where I stand with you," he mumbled, the crowded, heated bar with alcohol flowing and money changing hands nothing but white noise in his ears. "You'd sting me while looking me in the eye."

He sat up suddenly and grabbed another nearby shot. "So respect to you, you little bastard!" he slurred, downing the shot. He stood a little unsteadily and pushed his way through the crowd. The night was warm and sultry, the lapping sounds of the sea soothing enough. He'd need that for the clanger of a hangover he'd be nursing in the morning. He walked to the edge of the water, stood swaying in the breeze, contemplating. He watched the clouds rolling in from the horizon. The air was charged. The hairs on his arms reached out towards the ions in the atmosphere ghosting across his skin.

Death didn't want him. MI6 considered him disposable.

There was really only one reason to go back. He felt his mind sober slightly with thoughts and memories of Q pressing onto his mind, swimming and intermingling with images of Vesper.

But no. That wasn't reason enough. He'd learned his lesson from Vesper. Love was selfish and dangerous to all parties concerned. Q was better, safer and eventually, would be happier without him.

 _Fuck you, World,_ he thought to himself, _you can take your stormy weather and shove it up your arse._ And on those pearls of wisdom, he stumbled back to his beach hut and the waiting substitute warming his bed.


	4. Chapter 4

It had been a quiet few weeks in the world of secrets and spies. However, a tranquil surface more often than not hid tumultuous undercurrents just waiting to explode through the deceptive veneer and dismantle the status quo.

Never turn your back on the status quo. Like any demanding mistress, she hates being ignored and will do all she can to refocus your attention.

On this particular day, Q wished she hadn't been quite so brutal with her attention-seeking antics, sneaking up behind him and virtually snapping his neck.

"What the bloody hell…."

Jason squinted at his screen, not quite believing what he was seeing. The glitches danced across the coding like they had a life of their own.

"Q!" The urgency in his voice had the man by his side in an instant. He didn't need to be told what was going on.

"Call Tanner. Inform M someone is attempting to breach our internal security systems," he punched out with a calmness he didn't feel, moving swiftly back to his own post to throw up firewalls and diversions to keep out whatever bastard thought could penetrate his system.

"Shouldn't we—?"

"Not without directive from M," barked Q, not breaking from his task. "She may want to trace source before we are forced to shutdown."

Q was struggling. Whoever was trying to crack the system knew what they were doing. It was like fighting a mirror of himself.

Level head. Breath. Calm… And just when he thought he was getting somewhere every screen in division went blank.

Then all hell broke loose.

* * *

The explosion shook the building to its core. Alarms sounding on every level drove operatives and employees into evacuation mode. Q was the last to leave the branch, locking down what he could to limit any more further damaging breaches.

"Blast it all to hell!" he shouted angrily. He slammed the screen on his laptop and unplugged, hurriedly heading towards the exit. He caught sight of a minion on his way.

"What the blue blazes are you still doing here?! OUT OUT OUT! That's an order!" he barked.

Standard operating procedure in the midst of an attack, there was a car waiting outside for the Branch Head, with two security personnel in the passenger and driver seat and one holding the rear door open.

"This way, Sir!" Q legged it for the car, minion following in his wake.

Q glanced down the convoy of waiting vehicles to see Eve Moneypenny bundling herself into a car with two others. He caught her eye before disappearing into the back seat. I suppose that drink will have to wait, he thought to himself, I hope she doesn't think I orchestrated this to get out of it. Funny how the brain works in a crisis, thinking of the most mundane things. The juxtaposition of thought and circumstance was making Q feel a little giddy.

He climbed quickly into the back of the car and turned to see his coding specialist hesitate, looking at the security guard standing by the door. Q poked his head back out the door. "What are you waiting for a bloody invitation? Move yourself, man! Get in!"

What Q hadn't seen and realised too little too late, was that the man had a gun trained on the hesitating operative. He heard the shot and watched in frozen horror as he crumpled to the ground and was unceremoniously kicked away, just before the perpetrator of the act climbed in beside Q and plunged a needle into his neck.

Q's last thought as he felt the car bolt forward at breakneck speed and just before he slipped into unconsciousness was that he hadn't even known his name.

* * *

Q woke. In his semi-roused state, he realised two things:

One, while his mind was aware, the muscles in his body were in no way cooperating. Two, despite the hood covering his head, he felt the anonymous scrutiny from the darkness beyond. It wasn't a comforting realisation. He tried not to speculate on what was in store. Unfortunately, creative mind that he possessed, it was prone to rather overactive imaginings.

"Do what you want," Q rasped, his mouth dry around the words forced from his lips. "I won't tell you anything."

The statement was met with silence though Q could feel the scrutiny continue unabated.

Two can play at that game, he thought to himself. Seconds became minutes. Q focussed on calmly his heartbeat and levelling his breathing. Suddenly, he was thankful for three months of strength and fitness training. James would be proud, he thought wryly.

His captor decided to break the silence. "I'm not interested in you, Quartermaster," he stated in a soft voice. The kind of voice that could convince you to do things and behave in ways that would conflict one's character. "I'm assisting my employer in fishing for much bigger game but you are a more than adequate lure for purpose, and a stepping stone to what I truly want."

Q was being kept alive for more than his intimate knowledge of MI6. He was a prize in himself. What could be more important than stripping his mind bare? Even he couldn't resist engaging the mysterious voice in the hope of uncovering more of his intent. "And that purpose? What is it you do want? If not to squeeze intel from the Head of Q Branch?"

"Do you realise how much damage your and your little agent did in Tel Aviv? He went completely off script and you followed, like the little sheep you are, and were." He paused for dramatic effect, now standing directly in front of Q, still incapacitated in the armchair.

"Arthur Clifton," he whispered.

The sound of his given name from the lips of his unknown kidnapper was enough to cause him to bodily tense in response.

The man continued as though the revelation of Q's identity was a mere afterthought. "You cost my organisation a lot of money, those girls and boys were irreplaceable assets in a chain of ownership that will take me months to re-establish. Not only that, but you robbed me of that most precious of things. Family. My sister. Vanished. A ghost in the wind…"

"I really have no idea what you are talking about."

"Of course you don't, Arthur." The voice had now moved and was standing behind him, leaned down, close to his ear.

"But once I bring your little Double-O into the light, I'll at least have a chance of redeeming myself in the eyes of my employer."

"James Bond is dead," Q ground out bitterly through gritted teeth. "So unless you're planning on holding a seance and conjuring up his ghost…"

His captor ignored him. "And back to your original question. I have what I want. Arthur." The hood was yanked from his head and Q blinked in the light, adjusting his vision. A boy he hadn't seen for 15 years stepped from the darkness of the past into the light of the present.

Philip Plastow.


	5. Chapter 5

It was well past midnight when M got home, the London rain doing little to wash away the dust and grime she could still feel upon her skin in the aftermath of the explosion that had rocked the SIS both literally and figuratively to its foundations. It took a lot to rattle M but somehow, perhaps drawing on the strength of her recently departed husband, her composure had remained intact as she stood in the centre of the shell of her former office, holding her ceramic British Bulldog, surveying the damage. That the gift from her husband should survive the wreckage was message enough to M. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to expose their weaknesses. Only someone who knew the system as well as she did could have accomplished such a coup d'etat. She had her suspicions but would have to keep them to herself for now.

 _If ever we needed your talent for resurrection, Bond, now would be a good time to let that talent shine._ It was a vain hope, but somehow, M felt better for sparing her former agent a thought in the wake of everything she had lost.

Of course, topping all those losses was her Quartermaster. What an absolute bastard of a day, she thought to herself, pouring a large whiskey in the hopes of numbing her senses and smoothing out the frayed edges of her nerves if only just a fraction, if only just for a moment. She was far too distracted and lost in her own thoughts and concerns about how she was going to salvage the situation to notice the dark silhouette sitting in her living room bay window.

"007 reporting for duty, Ma'am."

"Where the bloody hell have you—?"

M was momentarily distracted from her chastisement of the agent when she felt her phone vibrate. She'd been waiting for this. She ignored Bond in favour of opening her laptop and checking her messages.

 _Source: Unknown. Subject: Is he more than just a letter to you?_

She clicked the link. A video message.

Bond had moved behind the sofa to look over her shoulder. She heard the whispered breath and the words escape before he could stop them, "What the hell…."

Q lounged limply and disorientated in an armchair, flanked by two thugs, obviously not bothered by their identities being known.

The voice behind the camera spoke with an unnerving neutrality and calm. "Don't worry, M. We won't damage the wiring on your precious brainbox. Well, not too much. I have a score to settle with your little Double-O plaything. I want Bond to bring me what belongs to me and we might consider releasing your precious boffin. Assuming I don't grow too attached to him in the meantime. A simple trade is my only demand. Stephanie Plastow for Q's safe return. If anyone else other than Bond and my sister makes an appearance, well then, Mr Arthur Clifton will be joining the dust of River House on the four winds. See you soon, 007…"

The feed was cut. M didn't have to look around. She could feel the air around Bond cackle and charge. He was good at his job when he was angry and with something specific to focus that anger upon, even better.

M didn't look around as she spoke. "You do realise it's a trap don't you?"

"Aren't they always," said Bond, no hint of humour in his voice, still attempting to process what he had just seen. Q. Alone. At the mercy of thugs. Because of him.

"You're in love with him, aren't you?" She stood up then and turned to face him. "Haven't you learned your lesson, Bond?"

Bond didn't deny the statement, though he had yet to fully acknowledge the truth of it himself. The old dragon understood him too well to bother. "Evidently not. Ma'am."

"Well, you're not cleared for active duty so I can't assign you to the mission."

"Unless I do it off book."

M paused. She had been waiting for the proposal. Knew it was coming, Bond. An irrefutable force of unpredictability in so many ways yet predictable as night following day in so many others.

She looked him dead in the eye. Her agent resurrected. "You were never here. We never had this discussion." She sat down again.

He was about to ask if she planned on shooting him down in the midst of this operation as well. He thought better of it. Q was the priority. "Ma'am," he acknowledged and turned to leave.

He paused at the door when she whispered through the exhaustion creeping up on her. Bond had never thought he would hear a sliver of fragility in her tone. But it was there. "Get Q back, Bond. In one piece please. This is a war of the shadows. We can't fight it without him."

* * *

 _"You know whatever happens, we love you, don't you James?"_

 _James smiled and though he knew his mother couldn't see it, she would hear it in his reply._

 _"Always and forever, Mother. Where are you and Father now? I can hear what sounds like the adhan in the background…"_

 _He heard her sigh. "Sometimes I think we raised a boy far too clever for his own good."_

 _"The student is only as good as his teachers," came the swift reply._

 _"And a cheeky charmer as an added bonus." Now he could hear the warmth and fondness filter through the line, "see" the resigned but loving shake of her head. It warmed him in return._

 _"We'll be home day after tomorrow. Be good for Kincade, young man."_

 _"Where's the fun in that? Must keep the old blighter on his toes, Mother."_

 _She laughed. "Goodbye, my darling. See you soon."_

 _"Goodbye, Mother. Stay safe." As he hung up the phone, James realised she hadn't answered his question and, had he known those would be the last words he ever spoke to her, he wondered often after that, would he really have said anything different…_

* * *

From a very young age, James Herbert Bond walked in the shadow of Death, a constant companion known and understood in more facets than any living man had a right to know.

He had sat alone for two days, wrapped in the darkness of Skyfall's secret tunnel with the cowled figure. They had discussed at length why He had felt the need to take not one, but both parents from him.

Death explained how the world worked. Death explained that in order to cheat Him, you had to have nothing to live for. James' parents had too much to live for. In removing them from the equation of life, Death had given James a rare and beautiful gift. How James chose to use that gift was up to him.

After a lengthy debate and two days later, James stepped from that darkness. The boy who had entered that tunnel, wasn't a boy anymore. Death had done his job, and done it well. In taking the two most precious things in life from James Bond, He'd created an ally.

Death Made Flesh.

James stood at the plane hatch, parachute strapped to his back, watching the clouds rush past. Strapped to his thigh, the weapon Q had designed based on the Tel Aviv blueprints.

 _He ran careful fingers over the weapon, admiring as always, the work of the Quartermaster and his ability to make something so deadly feel so beautiful. He snatched his fingers away, clenching his fist. He looked up at R, an ally in his silent mission, who had been observing him intently. She watched the veil drop and the cold, calculated intent take shape in those steel-blue eyes. It was the look of a man who had witnessed his world burn. On repeat. "Take it," she said quietly. "Q made it for you. Only you can fire it. Seems appropriate that you would save him with it." Unhesitating, James hoisted the gun and cradled it in his arms reverently, marvelling the weight and balance. Light and perfect. Just like Q, he thought silently. R smiled. "Fits like a glove." Her expression immediately fell dark and serious, almost a mirror of the unreadable expression of Bond's. "Bring him back, 007. And while you're at it, show no fucking mercy…"_

In counterpoint to the hurried journey of those scattered clouds across night skies, one thought crystallised in his mind, coalescing all the fragmented memories he'd been sifting through endlessly during his 3-month "sabbatical."

Without Arthur Clifton, he truly had nothing to live for.

The green light flashed above his head. Destination reached. Unbidden, his Father's favourite Shakespearean passage passed through his mind.

 _"Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;  
Or close the wall up with our English dead.  
In peace there's nothing so becomes a man  
As modest stillness and humility:  
But when the blast of war blows in our ears,  
Then imitate the action of the tiger;  
Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,  
Disguise fair nature with hard-favour'd rage…"_

Death Made Flesh leapt forward and disappeared into the darkness.


	6. Chapter 6

"How many times do I have to tell you? James Bond is DEAD. He took a bullet to the chest followed by a 100 foot swan dive off a bridge and into a river," Q sighed, feeling much as though he was speaking to a child who would not listen or even attempt to understand the logic being imparted. "He was a good agent, but he's not fucking Jesus," Q spat, the bitterness lacing his voice, "and when last I checked the SIS's policy for dealing his human-trafficking, terrorist bastards…Oooo… let me think…" he feigned rolling his eyes in contemplation before redirecting his gaze back to Plastow, "that's right," he punched out sarcastically, "they don't."

One of the guards moved from the door, fist clenched, looking as though he was about to lay into Q. Q raised his chin invitingly, just as Philip Plastow raised his hand to stop the motion of the thug.

"You'd like that wouldn't you, Arthur? One of my boys here to beat you to a pulp? End the misery of your capture?"

"Well, it's either that or you bore me to death, Philip. The former is much more inviting right now."

Philip was sitting directly in front of Q, almost close enough that their knees were touching, he leaned forward and ran his palms up Q's thighs. Q couldn't help the involuntary flinch betrayed by his body.

"I always knew you did have a mouth on you, though you hid it very well in the pomp and circumstance of our educational establishment," he said, keeping his eyes trained on the movement of his own hands.

He sat back then abruptly, crossing his legs and resting folded hands on his knee.

"Why are you so sure he's dead, Arthur?"

"Why are you so bloody convinced he isn't?" countered Q.

Philip looked around as though contemplating his answer. "Let's just say, the people I work for have their ways and means, and their reach is quite impressive." He stood then, stepping round behind Q and resting his hands on his shoulders. "And once my sister is returned and after I pick the contents of that beautifully complex mind of yours, wringing every last encrypted secret out of it, the world is about to get a whole lot smaller and said world will come to them, on bended knee, begging for whatever small scraps they see fit to throw from their bountiful table into starving, pitiful mouths."

He stepped back in front of Q again and leaned down to take his jaw between slender fingers, a predatory look in his eyes. "Speaking of mouths, I never did get to try that pretty little mouth of yours, Arthur. You were always such a bloody tease."

"Put anything near my mouth and prepare to be parted from it."

"Mmmm," Plastow said, turning away and strolling to lean against the wall next to the door, arms folded. "Might be a bit difficult to do that without any teeth." He nodded to one of the guards who walked over to a table by the wall opposite and grabbed a pair of pliers. The smile on his face told Q that this was a man who enjoyed his work. He braced himself for the inevitable pain just as a loud bang from the other side of the door interrupted proceedings. A gruff, muffled voice. "They're here."

Q's composure was even more rattled by those words than the thought of becoming a toothless wonder, his lips parting ever so slightly in shock.Impossible… thought Q. Plastow turned to share a smug look with his captive. "Oh ye of little faith, Arthur."

Plastow nodded to the other guard to open the door. "Bring them to the other holding room…" he began just as the door swung open. The guttural sound of a throat being sliced open was swiftly followed by one of the former corridor guards been pushed bodily forward through the door, blood gushing from his neck as he collapsed into the guard on the other side of the opening. The soft "putt putt!" of a silencer sounded and Plastow could only watch in bemused horror as both his henchmen fell to the ground, barely time to draw their weapons from their holsters.

James Bond stepped over the bodies, his weapon trained on the wide-eyed Plastow, watched in equally wide-eyed disbelief by his Quartermaster.

"I happen to like that pretty little mouth just the way it is," said James, just before he shot him in the head.

* * *

 _ **Ten minutes earlier…**_

Fearlessness can be a positive or a negative. Or in the case of James Bond? Both.

Every moment lived was lived on a knife edge, not so much walked, just not standing still long enough to allow gravity to exert its force on your bodily weight the time needed to slice you voluntarily. Hesitation was for fools and vagabonds. James Bond was neither.

As he descended from the sky, guiding the parachute into the courtyard of the compound where Q was being held, he saw two flashlights scanning the area beneath him, two guards were obviously on patrol. James aimed for the bullseye, the one in the centre of the yard.

Moments like this, when he was alone, working rogue, his Father's voice was in his ear. In the absence of Q, it was a comfort, a fortitude in itself. _Why do we fall, James? So we can learn to pick ourselves up._

James freed himself from the parachute 20 feet from the ground, releasing the gun from his thigh as he fell. Just as the guard looked up, James crashed into him, knocking him unconscious with the force of his unhindered fall. The other guard swung round and took aim, but James had already predicted the move, pulling the body over him to block the volley of gunshots from his associate. He disposed of the assailant seconds later.

 _"Report! What was that?"_ the voice over the walkie demanded.

Bond contemplated answering but it would sound contrived as he well knew. This way, he could draw them out into the open and take the other guards out with little or no effort.

He lay still under the unconscious body and waited.

 _PUTT! PUTT! PUTT!_

Christ, Bond thought to himself. If only all my missions were this fucking straightforward…

Another five minutes told him no more provocations were forthcoming.

So focussed had he been on listening for additional assailants on the approach he belated noticed his rousing human blanket. His human blanket, that was apparently wearing a kevlar vest.

James placed his gun to the man's temple. "I'll bet you're quite ticklish…" James whispered with a wink. Well, that would be enough to throw anyone off their game, wouldn't it?

* * *

With Bond's sock stuffed in his mouth and a string from the parachute keeping it in place, the guard walked ahead of Bond, into the heart of the compound towards his employer's location.

Maybe they should have paid him more. Yes. They definitely should have paid him more, he thought to himself. Why the fuck are the rich fuckers always a bunch of tightarses?

If I get out of this alive, he thought to himself, I'm going into business for myself and I'm going to treat my employees right… A nice sentiment.

Shame it wouldn't come to fruition.

It helps to know your quarry. Especially when that quarry is James Bond, on mission to save, not only the man he loved but the most important intelligent asset in the history of the service. Walking towards your fate at the end of the gun barrel of James Bond, least sentimental man in existence - next only to perhaps, Donald J Drumpf - is probably the worst position in the world you could find yourself. Shame that…

The muffled voices wafted through thin walls as they approached the destination.

Ummff mmmfff umpf!" the guard whispered. James heard, "Please. Don't kill me!" He'd been on the handle of a gun often enough to know when a man or woman was pleading for their life.

"Do as I say and I might grant your request," replied Bond quietly.

Better than a bullet in the head, the guard thought.

"Bang on the door," said James, after a few moments listening to the going-ons beyond the wall, assessing positions and number of targets. Bond undid the string and yanked the sock from his mouth. "Say, loud and clear, "they're here."

James lifted his foot and drew the knife from his ankle, still holding the gun to the man's temple.

The guard complied with his request.

He knew where Plastow was standing as the door swung open and in that same movement, James sliced through the man's neck without hesitation, without compunction. Like any good Double-O in the employ of Her Majesty.

 _PUTT! PUTT!_

He met the startled wide-eyed gaze of his Quartermaster and allowed the briefest most fleeting moment of pleasure to course through his mind at the sight of Arthur Clifton, intact and relatively unscathed. He did not, however, falter in his move aimed at ending the target, turning his weapon upon the wide-eyed gaze of Philip Plastow.

"I happen to like that pretty little mouth just the way it is," said James, just before he shot him in the head.

Like the sound of a lover's moan, the laugh of his mother or the sigh of his Quartermaster on solving a particularly challenging puzzle, it was the most satisfying of sounds.

Bond turned his gaze upon his captive Quartermaster.

To a Double-O, love is as splendid as it is strange.


	7. Chapter 7

"You are fucking Jesus," whispered Q, his usually well-catalogued thoughts scattered to the endless recesses of his addled mind. As far as he was concerned, he was speaking to/with/via a figment of his wishful imagination.

Or maybe he was dead and this was his version of heaven. Who the fuck cares.

"Unless you've changed your name to Jesus in the last three months, Q, no. I'm neither fucking Jesus nor have any designs on any other deity. Bar you," he said with a small smile.

Q pushed himself out of the chair just as James made his way towards him to break his stumble with outstretched arms. Q closed his eyes and just breathed him in, felt the solidness of him beneath his hands.

"James… Is it really you?"

In the heat of battle and the aftermath of the fight, James Bond was never much of a one for words. He wasn't even sure he could hear Q's words, much less process them now he was holding him in his arms, safe. He studied his features, the smooth angles, remembered the soft gaze in morning dawn and lust-filled green hovering above him in the dying twilight.

 _How could I ever have given this up?_

His right hand, still clutching his gun, pressed into the small of Q's back. James wrapped his left hand around the nape of his neck and drew them together.

His dreams in the intervening months since James' disappearance had always been vivid. If this was one of them, Q didn't want to wake up.

Ever.

* * *

 _ **Four Days Later, Back On Active Duty.**_

 _ **Room 34, The National Gallery, London. Mid-Afternoon.**_

Bond gazed at The Fighting Temeraire. The click of approaching heels distracted him from his momentary reverie and he glanced to his right to be greeted by a pair of long, lean legs standing next to him.

He let his eyes travel casually up her body to meet her gaze. "I'm sorry. Have we met before?" The owner of said rather attractive legs took a seat next to him.

"I'm the one who should say sorry," she said. _A familiar voice in his ear, a lifetime ago in Istanbul._

Bond shrugged as though being shot by a fellow agent was as normal an event in his day as grabbing a coffee.

"It was only four ribs. Some of the less vital organs. Nothing major. Not enough excitement in Istanbul?" he enquired, keeping his eyes on Turner's painting.

I've been reassigned. Temporary suspension from field work," she replied, crossing her legs and placing an elbow on her knee, chin resting on her hand to study the object of Bond's attentions.

"You don't say," he murmured.

"Mmmm. Something to do with killing 007."

He leaned over slightly, humour in his voice as he replied. "Well, you gave it your best shot."

She leaned towards him in kind. " That was hardly my best shot," she fired back with mock incredulity.

I'm not sure I could survive your best."

She gave a tight-lipped smile and extended her hand. "I'm Eve. Eve Moneypenny."

"Pleasure, Miss Moneypenny," he replied accepting the proffered palm.

"I was expecting the Quartermaster."

"I know," she said, reaching into her bag. "I'm doing him a favour. I owe him one or two."

"As do I," murmured James.

Eve held out an envelope. And a hotel key. A knowing smile now graced her beautiful face.

"St Martin's Lane, round the corner."

He stared at the key, hoping it meant what he thought it did. Eve closed her bag and stood. "Your passport and flight details are in there. Unfortunately, I couldn't get you a flight to Shanghai any sooner than this evening," she said with the measured nonchalance practiced all too well by Bond himself.

She made to walk off, glancing over her shoulder for a parting shot. "Merry Christmas, 007."


	8. Chapter 8

**_EPILOGUE_**

 _Christ._

Moneypenny was right. It was Christmas. The only thing that could have made the scene any better was a pair of stockings…

Having quietly entered the hotel room with the naturally inherent stealth of an SIS agent, James silently slipped up to the bedroom door, which stood slightly ajar.

The long, lean frame of one Arthur Clifton lay stretched out on his stomach in nothing but a pair of boxers, facing the window, bare soles towards the bedroom door, absorbed in his task typing on his laptop.

A glorious sight for the Q-starved soul.

 _Well. He had no one but himself to blame for that,_ he thought to himself. _And maybe M…_

He leaned against the doorframe with practised coolness before making his presence felt.

"You know you really shouldn't sit with your back to the door. Any dangerous rogue with designs on robbing you of your innocence could wander by and take advantage."

Q had been expecting him so responded with equal coolness, not halting from his typing or diverting his attention towards Bond. "Well, while I know I asked Eve to give you a key, I half expected you to come through the window regardless." He rolled over then and stood up.

"Ah. There you are, Bond." _Sassy little fucker,_ thought Bond amusedly to himself.

"Come to gather the rest of your kit for the Shanghai job? Excellent." He sauntered towards him, small black case in hand and passed it to Bond. James opened it while not taking his eyes from the vision of Arthur Clifton in nothing but glasses and boxers in front of him.

He briefly glanced at the contents. "A gun and a radio…" he said, in a slightly bored tone of voice. "It's a good thing the delivery boy is so bloody delicious, otherwise I might have to put in a complaint with Q Branch for their lackadaisical approach to kitting out agents."

Q looked over the rim of his glasses, the invitation clear. "A good thing indeed," he replied, backing himself towards the bed and sitting down.

Bond hesitated nonetheless. Remorseless bastard that he generally had to be in his line of work, the guilt of his going AWOL niggled at his mind.

He put his hands in his pockets and he approached the bed tentatively, not yet deigning to join him there. He looked at Q sombrely for a moment. "I would have thought you'd want to talk, Arthur."

"Did you suffer sunstroke while on your little holiday, James? Because I can't venture to guess another reason as to why you would think talking was on the mind of a man lying on a hotel bed in the middle of the afternoon in nothing but a pair of boxers."

"Arthur…"

"James." Q closed his laptop and rose from the bed to stand in front of him. "I was on that call too. I heard the shot, fell with you off that bridge. We gave up on you. I can hardly hold you accountable for your actions in the aftermath of what surely felt like such a monumental betrayal." He sat down on the edge of the bed again, taking hold of James' unresisting hand to drag him down alongside him.

"We should have trusted you to finish the job," he said softly.

"M would never admit she lost her nerve," he said plainly.

Q stifled a snort at the thought of M admitting a weakness in anything. "Well we know better, don't we?" he said, leaning back on his elbows. James followed the move with a predatory gaze, studying the body of his Quartermaster like he was sitting looking at a wet dream of a weapons cache trying to figure out which trigger to pull first.

"And we'll have plenty of time to talk... Later..." the soft tone washed over Bond like an arousing balm, the caress on his mind conjuring up many and welcome images of previous occasions Q had adopted the very same tone. A sound that could simultaneously rouse and calm the beast presently clawing at the agent's libido, demanding satisfaction.

"I know it's been three months," he murmured through a thoughtful frown, "but you look… different."

"Double O Observant, I see. Not lost that gift then," said Q with a smile.

In one smooth move, James moved to straddle Q beneath him. He tilted his head. "Haircut?"

"Nope."

"Finally grown enough stubble to shave?" he teased, running fingers gently along his jaw.

"No, you cheeky bastard," Q replied, his body's arousal in response to James' roaming hands rapidly beginning to affect his breathing.

"If you must know, I've taken up strength training, and 005 is going to teach me how to defend myself."

Q, of course, knew full well the response that revelation would elicit from the agent.

He grabbed Q's wrists with relative gentleness and brought them up above his head to pin them to the mattress. "If you think for one second," he growled into Q's neck, "I'm letting another Double-O lay hands on you like that, Arthur Clifton, you've got another thing coming…"

"Promises, promises, 007," he whispered, closing his eyes and permitting the refamiliarisation of soft lips on pale, smooth skin and the newly established contours and lines that now graced his torso.

"Suit. Off."

Wordlessly, Bond obliged the command of his Quartermaster.

He resumed his position, hovering silently above, Q imagining that this must be the look a kite bestows upon a mouse or a vole, just before it swoops down to devour the unsuspecting meal. James just studied him for a few heartbeats, Q running his fingers over his cheek, still not quite believing that he was here. Alive. Breathing. Sharing air, heat, kisses. He felt a strong hand glide up his thigh, exhaled a sharp breath at the feeling.

James broke the kiss and leaned back to look at him.

"What's wrong?" he asked, concerned.

Q took the hand and silently studied it, kissing the fingers softly before taking the index one between his lips, the tip of his tongue gliding gently from knuckle to fingertip before releasing it. James could only stare, doing his best to retain some control, hang on to waning composure. "Do that again, and I won't be responsible for my actions, Q. I'm going to wreck you anyway and with moves like that you may well incur some permanent damage," his voice low, edged with that dangerous tone he reserved for enemies he was about to take down. And evidently now, for the lover he was silently vowing to himself never to desert again.

Arthur smiled. "Your trigger finger. The callous is gone."

And there it was again. That thought. _What the hell was I thinking, even for a second, giving this man up?_

So it was for the next hour, Commander James Bond demonstrated to his Quartermaster, that while his trigger callous may be temporarily missing, he remembered in complete and very vivid detail each and every one of Arthur Clifton's triggers.

* * *

"Oh, and James?" a freshly showered Q poked his head around the bathroom door.

"Yes, Arthur?" Bond asked warily as he pulled on his jacket.

"If I promise you can wreck some of my personal equipment when you get back, will you at least try and bring back my toys in one piece?"

Bond straightened his tie with a smile and wrapped an arm around MI6's - and his own - most valuable asset for a parting kiss. "With a promise like that, I can only do my very best to oblige, Quartermaster."

 **END**

 **THE QUARTERMASTER AND HIS AGENT WILL RETURN**

 **IN**

 **WHERE ANGELS FEAR TO TREAD**


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